


Ivory of Your Skin

by Reiya_Wakayama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, love of inanimate objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lonely genius falls for his own creation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ivory of Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I really do love the myth of Pygmalion as well as the book and while most people use the book when they do fusions, I haven’t seen many that use the actual myth. Originally, I wanted to make it be during the actual time period when this supposedly happened, but I don’t know enough about ancient Cyprus to do it credit so I changed it to modern.

Sherlock ignores Mycroft as the older man stands in the doorway of his flat. His brother is meddlesome and he does not wish to deal with the pompous man at the moment. He is far too busy with his current case.

Placing another nicotine patch on his arm, he inhales slowly, feeling the drug start to enter his system. Hands under his chin, he lets his mind wander, forming connections as it wills. He is annoyed but not surprised as Lestrade comes knocking. The man has a knack for know when Sherlock has an answer.

“The man’s lover, an actor at the local theater, is the one who killed him. You’ll find his weapon of choice is the statue he keeps in their residence.” Lestrade does not even blink, just turns back around and heads out, sending one of his men with him to the theater to apprehend the murderer.

Draping himself over his low couch, Sherlock glares up at his brother. “Why are you here, Mycroft?” A breeze stirs the lace curtains in the windows, shifting the shadows as the afternoon sunlight slips through the gaps.

“As ever, I am worried about you,” the man answers, ever the politician with his smooth words and genial smile.

“Boring, doesn’t interest me. Go away,” Sherlock says, turning over to turn into a ball on his couch.

“This isn’t good for you, brother. You can’t hole yourself away from the world. Eventually, you must face it.” Mycroft takes a step into the room, long coat shifting slightly around him.

“I said go away Mycroft,” Sherlock hisses.

Mycroft sighs, “You know where to find me if you need me.” Sherlock snorts but does not turn around and soon the older man leaves.

Sherlock waits until Mycroft’s footsteps have faded before springing to his feet. His feet follow a familiar path through his flat to a room in the back. Inside, afternoon sunlight streams into the room, lighting up the bed and dresser as well as a statue.

The statue is of a man, built like a soldier. His body is compact and sturdy. He stands at ease in contrapposto; one knee bent slightly, arms hanging loose at his side. His eyes are gentle, wrinkles fanning out from them, lines on his forehead. The details are striking, so much so that the ivory statue seems almost alive, as if the man is only resting and will soon spring into motion.

He traces a fingertip along the statue’s clean lines, the ivory cold to the touch. He will never understand why he created this statue, his only work. He had joined a sculpting class for a case; he needed information on just what exactly went into the making of a statue. And afterwards, after he had completed the class, he could not seem to get the will to get rid of the statue.

“Hello, John,” he says, having named him some time ago. As always, the statue remains motionless and never replies. Snorting at his foolishness, Sherlock stalks away. He needs to see if Lestrade has caught the man yet.

~*~

Months go by, and still he does not rid himself of the statue. He starts to talk to him, whole one-sided conversations. He images John’s replies, his voice, and his expressions if the statue is alive. He buys clothing and places them on John, warm wooly jumpers and jeans that hug his legs. He makes tea and leaves it next to John and though the cups remain full and the tea grows cold, he feels warmth.

He even lies next to John, on the rare occasion that he chooses to sleep, curled around the statue, letting his body warmth heat up the cool ivory. Mycroft visits and leaves, Lestrade brings him cases, Mrs. Hudson mothers him and bakes him treat, but John stays. John never leaves him alone and for that he is grateful.

~*~

“Why did you drag me here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks waspishly as he climbs out of the car that his brother had sent to kidnap him.

“Because Mummy is worried about you and she asked me to have you visit at least once this year,” Mycroft says evenly.

“So you dragged me all the way to Cyprus to visit Mummy?” Not waiting for his brother to answer, he walks off to where his mother is waiting.

~*~

“Sherlock,” Mummy Holmes says softly, embracing her son. She is an imposing woman with her son’s pale complexion and riot of dark curls. “You really should visit more often so I do not have to resort to these measures just to see my own son.”

“Sorry, Mummy,” Sherlock says softly, though he smiles. They spend the rest of the day talking about his life and updating all that has happened since his last visit. She mentions nothing about his lack of people in his life and he says nothing about her unwillingness to return to the home of Sherlock’s childhood and his father’s suicide.

“Well, my dear, this has been enjoyable. Mycroft has a plane ticket for you back to England for tomorrow. And since you are here, you might as well enjoy yourself. The Festival of Venus is going on at the moment. Go out and see the sights.”

Sighing softly, he nods to his mother. Leaving with a final hug and kiss on the cheek, he makes his way back outside. The sun has already started to set as he walks down streets and alleys. Revilers are everywhere, the alcohol flowing freely. He watches briefly as a cow is sacrificed to the gods before it is cooked, incense cloying the air as fire smoke.

He stops before a small altar, a brazier in the center with a small bowl of incense resting beside it. A statue of Venus stands behind it, her face lovely and full of love and compassion. An odd urge grips him and he steps forward. Gripping a handful of incense, he chucks them into the fire, listening to the hiss and pop as they burn and the smoke fills the air.

Breathing deeply, he speaks softly, “If you are listening, please make,” he starts to say John, but then changes his mind, “make someone like John for me.”

And though he cannot see her, Venus can see him and she knows the words he really meant to say and her compassion for this lonely man swells. Willing to grant his wish, she sends him a sign, the brazier flaring brightly three times.

Sherlock starts and then he snorts at his apprehensiveness and his foolishness. Turning away, he heads back to where the car is waiting. And though he tries to ignore it, his heart beats a little faster the closer he gets to England and the knowledge of his wish.

~*~

Mrs. Hudson is out when he arrives back at 221b Baker Street. Striding through the flat, he goes to his room. The statue is still there and still inanimate. Berating himself for his foolish hopes, he shuts the door and starts to change out of his suit.

He absently runs a hand along John’s hand. He frowns at the warmth he feels. Touching his hand again, he presses a little harder and the ivory yields.

Hands shaking, he touches again and again to different parts of the statue and it steadily gets warmer and softer, like flesh. Pressing fingers to his wrist, he feels a pulse. John is alive! Shaking even more, he presses a hesitant kiss to John’s mouth.

John’s mouth moves against his gently, strong arms encircling Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock opens his eyes which he had closed and looks into smiling blue ones. “John?” he asks, worried he might be dreaming.

“Hello, Sherlock,” John answers. A lump forms in Sherlock’s throat and he presses his face into John’s jumper clad shoulder, hot tears squeezing out of his closed eyes, his heart bursting with happiness.

**End**


End file.
